The Masked Pianist
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: Sherlock suspects John is hiding a secret. He reluctantly asks Mycroft for help. In response, he very cryptically gives Sherlock a ticket to see the infamously elusive Masked Pianist perform. All is not as it seems...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Just a relatively short fic to get me back in the writing zone! Only a few chapters! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and leave a review at the end, positive, negatives, constructive crit, your opinions, I love them all!_

Summary: Sherlock suspects John is hiding something. One day, a very cryptic Mycroft gives him a ticket to see the infamously elusive Masked Pianist perform. All is not as it seems...

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><p><span>The Masked Pianist<span>

_De dum de dum de de dum, dum dum._

John was tapping out a very rhythmic and precise melody onto the battered kitchen countertop as he waited for the kettle to boil. He seemed half asleep, with heavy lidded eyelids and lethargic, groggy movements, but his eyes told a different story. They crackled and sparked as if on fire, as they always did when basking in puddles of adrenalin in the aftermath of a particularly thrilling case.

Sherlock observed all of this through half-lidded eyes as he pretended to doze awkwardly on the couch. He once again convinced himself that he had not been faking sleep on the couch for several nights for the sole purpose of observing John in the grind of his early morning routine.

He snorted superiorly to reassure himself.

_What an absurd notion! Why would *I* want to watch something so mundane?_

'_Keep telling yourself that Sherlock. It's really working for you.' _The skull smirked arrogantly from across his perch on the mantelpiece.

'_I thought I told you to shut up! Stop talking to me!_

Silence.

_Anyway, I have John to talk to now... I'll let Mrs Hudson take you. She needs the company more than I do.'_

'_No, no, don't! Her cats lick me! Don't send me back! I'll be good now, I promise!'_

Sherlock smirked triumphantly.

As expected, the _thunk _of a tea mug connecting with the coffee table resounded in his ears a few seconds later.

"Alright Sherlock, you can quit feigning sleep now. There's toast here if you want any. Which you probably won't. Ah well, it's your funeral. C'mon, get up."

Sherlock opened his eyes innocently, straightening up, and tugging at his dressing gown.

"You were tapping out a very interesting rhythm on the countertop. It is familiar."

John spluttered on his tea, flushing a light pink.

"Oh, that," He spluttered. "Nothing. Jeesh Sherlock, you're more paranoid that I first suspected. What do you think I was doing, communicating with Morse code? He chuckled feebly, gulping down his tea.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. _The _eyebrow.

He would find out what John was hiding, whatever it took.

John cringed at the secretive smile plastered across Sherlock's face. He was in trouble.

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><p><strong>Review!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the delay! I am in a very bad mood when I type this. My little brother threw my iPhone out of my window today. We live in a four story house. I'm on the top floor. I was not there at the time, and my phone was in my drawer. Needless to say, it was cracked. I'm so angry I could make Jim Moriarty look nice. Gaah! The masked slipped! I am happy, I am happy. Anyway, reviews will make me happy again! (So you better damn review)(!) Thank you for you kind reviews so far! (And all you silent alerters and favouriters!) **

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><p><em>Chapter Two<em>

"I'm off now Sherlock! Can you try not to get yourself killed before I get back? Oh, and the tea's still warm if you want any."

Sherlock sighed dramatically from his lethargic perch on the sofa. How many times had he told John to quit that mundane job at the clinic? But of course the infuriating man had begun to spout some rubbish about paying bills and using his medical education constructively (Did general knowledge TV quizzes and deducing the patient's disease on Casualty count? Sherlock was unsure.) Either way, listening to John shouting at the TV (_"It's Weil's disease, you thick, incompetent, moron of a doctor!")_ was highly entertaining. He tried to tell John that he used his 'medical knowledge' constructively when identifying the cause of death of some poor sod who'd been murdered. That had not gone down well with John.

But what Sherlock didn't tell John was that he had enough money to buy an entire block of flats and more beyond that. But of course, he hadn't been lonely and craving human contact. Those thoughts were more ridiculous than the 'Solar System' rubbish John was so insistent on him learning. _Honestly, who gave a damn if the Earth went round the Sun?_

'_Yeah, the sociopath facade is really working for you Sherlock._' The skull drawled arrogantly from its frozen position on the mantelpiece, next to the knife holding down unread letters and unpaid bills. _Dull_, Sherlock's mind uttered.

'_How much longer before you crack?_'

Sherlock stood up ceremoniously from his position on the couch, strode over to the mantelpiece and plucked the skull up between thumb and forefinger. Walking over to the kitchen bin, he promptly dropped the skull inside. The skull's cries of '_Nooo_!' reverberated throughout the kitchen.

"Enjoy your mind numbingly mundane day John. And try not to get yourself kidnapped will you? You know how dear taxis are getting." No response, but a small chuckle as the door slammed shut.

_How ridiculous to be jealous of a building and a few air head receptionists_, Sherlock thought.

Diverting his attention from the unwelcomed –_ welcomed_, the skull shouted – thoughts, Sherlock, with much trepidation, picked up his phone from its perch on the coffee table. Two weeks had passed since the 'table tapping' incident -as Sherlock refereed to it – and he had made frustratingly little progress. His attempts to follow John on his secretive midnight jaunts had all failed, a fact that bristled with Sherlock, as he liked to consider he knew London like the back of his hand (better, in fact) but the man always managed to lose him. His emails and texts remained annoyingly normal and unsuspicious, and the man himself had given nothing away, damn that impenetrably stoic military mask of his.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say. No pun intended.

"Hello, Sherlock. Well, this is certainly a surprise."

"Save your diatribe Mycroft. I'm afraid I require your... assistance with an important personal matter."

"Ah. John, I suppose you are implying?"

"Obviously." Sherlock ground out sarcastically. If John had been present, he would have probably said – or at least thought – how Sherlock sounded just like a certain Potions Master at that moment. Not that Sherlock would have understood the cultural reference.

"I shall be over-" Sherlock hung up before Mycroft finished his sentence.

He loathed asking his elder brother for help. No doubt he would give Sherlock an excruciatingly dull case as payment. And God damn it, he would have no choice but to take it. He growled in frustration.

'_If you want to give up, you'll never learn John's secret!' _Sherlock shot the skull a dirty look. _Who did he think Sherlock was? An infant hunting for treasure? _Sherlock winced. That comparison was too close.

"I thought I put you in the bin so you would shut up!"

'_You see Sherlock, there's this funny thing called your conscious. It doesn't have an off switch, unfortunately for you...' _

Sherlock flapped his arms in exasperation.

A swift knocking on the door and Sherlock sat up in a flash, snapping back to the matter in hand.

"Enter."

The door swung open. "Oh Sherlock, you always were so dramatic." There, in the doorway, complete with shark-worthy smile and bespoke umbrella, stood Mycroft.

"Save your petty barbs, _Mycroft_. I have little patience for them." Sherlock spat his elder brother's name out like a bad taste.

"As always. Very well, if you wish it." Mycroft, smiling amiably, sat himself in his customary armchair, and after flicking a minute piece of lint off his suit jacket, began to speak.

"I believe I have a solution to your – how should I put this? – enigma."

Sherlock sucked in a breath in frustration. No doubt Mycroft had observed everything from the CCTV tapes. No doubt with an air of amusement. It was at moments like these that Sherlock was reminded why he despised his elder sibling so.

Grinning wordlessly, Mycroft procured two pieces of shiny card from the depths of his immaculate suit pocket. They appeared to be tickets of some sort.

"I believe these will be sufficient assistance. Have you heard of 'The Masked Pianist?" Silence. "No? He's rather taken London by storm at the moment. I've heard he's a musical genius with no rival. Elusive to say the least, apparently he insists on wearing a ridiculous face mask for all his performances. Hence the 'masked', you see."

"Mycroft, I am not a child."

"I suppose, I suppose. But I should think that would be a matter of opinion, would it not?"

_Change the subject, change the subject, dangerous territory. _

"How is some supposed 'genius' pianist going to assist me?"

"I've managed to procure the last two tickets of his final performance. You see them here in my hand."

Sherlock seethed at Mycroft's blatant ignorance of his question.

"Perhaps you can ask John to accompany you? I'm sure he would love too. You could 'take him on a date', as I believe the phrase is now."

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fists, grasping at the beaten fabric of the armchair. He was going to knock that knowing smug smile off Mycroft's ugly face if he didn't shut his mouth this instant.

Mycroft continued obliviously, smirking. "Come now Sherlock, it's obvious you have formed an attachment to the man." Sherlock spluttered. "You forget, I see everything." And with that, he was up and gone, before Sherlock even had a chance to retort with some vitriolic comment.

"I'll be back to collect my payment shortly." Mycroft's parting words echoed in his ears. "Use the tickets Sherlock. All will become clear in time!"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock roared in frustration.

"Good day, dear brother!" Mycroft's cryptic chuckle echoed along with the gentile shutting of the door. He allowed himself a few seconds of verbal fuming, his dignity more shredded than the poor battered fabric beneath his fingers.

Loping over to the kitchen table, Sherlock examined the tickets Mycroft had given him. They were dated for 7pm tonight. Luckily, Mycroft had insisted on purchasing him a bespoke tuxedo two years ago as a 'gift' – although in Mycroft language that was a nice way of saying 'bribe'.

However, he was unsure as to John's wardrobe situation. Wardrobe ransacking would be another activity added to his relatively short 'TO DO' list, alongside sweeping the flat for Mycroft's bugs and completing his experiment of how long it took human flesh to dissolve in animal fat. On reflection, perhaps the empty Mayonnaise jar had not been the best course of action – the look on John's face had been murderous to say the least. And what a waste of bread, and another knife made completely unusable.

A few hours and one John-sized tuxedo later, John arrived home. Sherlock sat crouched on the armchair, a human contortionist with his gangly limbs folded like a deck chair. Knees tucked under chin, hands steepled, this was the position John had coined 'Crouching Tiger'. The other one were Sherlock would hide under John's bed to give him a fright when he awoke, (purely for his personal amusement) John had called 'Hidden Dragon'. Another cultural reference Sherlock simply did not understand.

At the sound of the closing door, Sherlock sprang from his position, lithe as a panther.

"John." He whipped the tickets from his jacket pocket dramatically. "I have acquired two tickets for a concert by 'The Masked Pianist' tonight at 7pm. I trust you can accompany me?" Sherlock froze, an expectant look on his face.

John, however, had turned very, very pale.

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><p><strong>Review, please? Reviews are like no calories attached chocolate chip cookies! I love them!<strong>

**~BB **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N – Admittedly, I've been about as subtle as an elephant with the plot, and the only excuse I can offer for Sherlock's blindness is this – We are all fools in love. Oh god, I think I've written Sherlock OCC. Noooo! Your opinions would be very much appreciated with this chapter; it was very difficult to write!**

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><p><em>Chapter 3<em>

"Ah, actually, I already have a date. With Sarah." John dashed over to the kitchen and frantically began making a cup of tea. I'm taking her to some posh restaurant in the Soho – can't recall the name at the moment. Reservation's been booked for weeks, couldn't cancel it now." He looked up at Sherlock fleetingly, looking simultaneously guilty and apologetic. "Sorry."

Sherlock looked down at his bare feet, and straightening up, looked square at John.

_Feelings of rejection are for petty mortals._

The skull laughed. Sherlock suspected it was at his expense.

"I understand." Sherlock replied. John's look of guilt increased. Sherlock tilted his head. There was something distinctly wrong with John. Scanning his eyes over the man's person several times, Sherlock could not detect any clues, and it was frustrating. John looked worried.

Sherlock continued. "Because only an idiot would want to spend more time with other idiots." John almost let out a sigh of relief. "No matter." Sherlock paused. "I shall not attend. Piano isn't really my area." John chuckled, eyes glazing as he fondly reminisced.

Sherlock lay down on the sofa like a lady fainting, throwing the tickets on the floor in disgust.

John coughed awkwardly. "Well, I have a, uh, date to be getting ready for." Gulping down the scalding cup of tea in record time, he dashed up to his room.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, eyes closed, mind whirring. In reflection, it would be for the best that John hadn't accompanied him. He couldn't have approached the 'Masked Pianist' with John in tow. But the sting of rejection still hurt, even if it could have been spared if he had bothered to turn his charm levels up a notch.

But he stubbornly refused to accept Mycroft's assistance with this matter. Damn his brother, he would solve this _enigma_ alone, and he didn't need_ help _(Sherlock sneered at the word) from any elusive geniuses.

A good place to start would be to follow John on his date. Yes, that was certainly the place to start.

Sherlock heard John from his room an hour later. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"I'll be back around ten, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent.

"Goodbye then." 69 seconds later, the door slammed shut.

As Sherlock stood up, his phone vibrated, sending spasms down his numb left leg.

_New Message from Mycroft_

Opening it, Sherlock scanned over the contents. Damn his brother, sending a text message was – he admitted grudgingly – rather tactical. Unlike phone calls, he couldn't hang up, and his innate curiosity always got the better of him – meaning he had to read it.

'_Use the tickets and talk to the Masked Pianist – or Mummy will find out __**exactly **__how her best china was broken.'_

_He wouldn't dare. _Sherlock cursed his brother with a list of expletives that would have made a washerwoman blush. However, he shouldn't have been surprised – blackmail was just one of the many numerous dirty tricks Mycroft had hidden under his bespoke sleeve.

'_You know I would, Sherlock._ _Use the tickets.' _The 'or I'll tell Mummy' was left unspoken.

With a sigh of exasperated despair, Sherlock cursed his brother once more, and arose from the sofa. His plans for following John this evening would have to be postponed.

Casting a glance at his watch, Sherlock loped off to the bathroom. He had two hours before the concert began. _Plenty of time._

Sherlock fiddled with his bow tie, resettling himself into seat. He sat in a row of the middle tier in the gladiator arena like concert hall, with the stage in the centre. On the stage sat a regal and expensive looking grand piano. Alas, pianos weren't really Sherlock's area.

_If Mycroft was going to blackmail me into enduring this, the least he could have done was got me a front row seat!_

When the Masked Pianist entered the stage, he would barely get a glimpse of the man, and that ridiculous face mask would only make deducing more difficult.

His tuxedo was not of place, at least. The seats were upholstered in plush red velvet and lined with gold, and the luxurious carpet and dark red. The gaudiness of it was nauseating.

_He was finally going to kill Mycroft when he next saw him._

Silence fell upon the hall as a man strode out onto the stage.

"Welcome, Ladies and Gentleman. Tonight, it is my pleasure to present to you, the elusive, the extraordinary, the famed, Masked Pianist." With a flourish, the swept off the stage. A smattering of applause, and silence fell once more.

Suddenly, the stage began to seep with grey smoke, the fog permeating the air and forming a opaque shield around the stage.

_Oh please, save me the dramatics. _Sherlock sneered disdainfully, but he couldn't help but feel minutely impressed.

The smoke faded almost immediately, revealing a man dressed in the typical black tail coat wearing a black face mask. Sherlock squinted. Male, slightly smaller than average height with brown or blonde hair – it was almost impossible to tell from here. Sherlock craned his neck hopelessly.

The face mask was not conducive to his deductions. Inky black, elegant, with exquisite detail – although it was hazy from this distance – it covered his entire face, with slits for the eyes, nostrils and mouth. It clung to the man with no assistance, obviously bespoke.

_Mycroft, you conniving bastard._ Sherlock knew his brother had placed him here on purpose.

With one gallant bow, the man sat down at the piano.

Piano may not have been his area, but it was certainly Mummy's. Memories of being dragged by the collar by Father to the numerous concerts as a child had remained infuriatingly lodged in his mind. Sherlock had catalogued in a mental file many hundreds of piano pieces – filed for future reference, as it were.

The soft, sweet notes of Chaminade's Autumn fell upon his ears. But unlike the other audience members, he did not jump when the piece flew into the forte, staccato section. Obviously the man possessed some modicum of talent, but nowhere near enough for Sherlock to call him a _genius_.

A small pause once the piece ended and the pianist began Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. As he the music fell upon his ears, Sherlock fidgeted in a nervous state of tension and impatience. He could deduce virtually nothing about the pianist from this distance, and the added distraction of the piano was frustrating. He thrice cursed himself for not bringing binoculars.

One piece flew into another as Sherlock sat in his tense hiatus, although he did pick up some of his favourites – de Falla's Ritual Fire Dance and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The pianist possessed stamina in large quantities, and the dexterity of his fingers was sublime, three hours of almost continuous playing, excepting the ten minute interval halfway, in which Sherlock barely breathed, let alone moved.

Grudgingly, he admitted the man must have possessed more than just a modicum of talent. The audience was visibly entranced, and absolute silence had fallen, except for the sweet music of the piano.

There was something achingly familiar about the pianist, which only increased Sherlock's suspended agitation. The pianist himself seemed very tense, on edge, even.

Even Clair de Lune could not calm his jittering nerves. As the last notes of Grieg's Solitary Traveller faded out, he prayed to whatever God (s) that were that this would be the end.

The pianist arose, and walking to the front of the piano, bowed deeply. The audience burst into rapturous applause, copious amounts of whistles and cheers adding to the cacophony. Sherlock clapped politely.

As the audience arose to leave, the pianist turned to walk off the stage. Sherlock saw his chance. Politely barging his way through the crowds, he vaulted on the stage, and slid behind the black curtains that circumferenced the stage, heading for the door the pianist had left through.

Slamming the door behind him in a frantic frenzy, Sherlock chased after the pianist who was heading towards the fire exit at the bottom of the left corridor.

"Wait!" Sherlock hollered. The man turned around. Still wearing his mask, Sherlock could not read his facial expression, but he saw something akin to panic spark in the man's eyes.

Slowly turning around, the pianist began to sprint towards the exit. Surprised, it took Sherlock half a second to commence the chase.

The man was half way out of the exit door before the detective slammed into the back of him, Sherlock's long legs easily making up the distance. In a blind panic, Sherlock grabbed out. Something hard came into his grasp. Tugging, it gave way, and for a moment, Sherlock was worried he might have ripped the man's face off, before realising it was in fact the black face mask.

The pianist stumbled from the impact, and with no facade left to hide his face, the pianist gave Sherlock a quick flash of terror and dismay. However, the stumble had provided him with the propellant needed to continue his sprint down the dank alleyway which the exit opened out onto.

But Sherlock did not follow. He was frozen to the spot, face mask clenched tightly between his two fists, eyes fixed on the cobbles beneath. He swayed slightly as his brain processed facts and images.

Everything clicked into place. John's table tapping had been piano miming. He had been attending concerts instead of dates on his late nights.

How could he have been so blind? All the facts had been laid out on a silver platter right under his nose. He felt so stupid he literally kicked himself.

Even _Mycroft _had discovered this before him, and Sherlock lived with John, for the love of Darwin.

_10:00pm._Inevitably, John would be home before him, but if everything went according to plan, that wouldn't matter.

_After all, as Mycroft said, Sherlock had always had a flair for the dramatic._

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><p><strong>What did you think? Review and let me know!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

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><p>Sherlock slid in the door of 221b, silent as a ghost. All the lights were off except in John's room. The occasional thump and stumble informed Sherlock that John was changing. He would be finished in approximately 2 minutes, and would promptly go to prepare a beverage.<p>

That gave him plenty of time.

Settling himself on the leather swing chair by the desk, Sherlock turned to face the door, and pointedly so that the back faced John's bedroom.

Now all he had to do was wait.

2 minutes later, John turned on the light.

"Hello John." John jumped two feet in the air and yelled in surprise.

Sherlock swung to face John, long legs crossed. Holding up the face mask with one finger through the eye socket, Sherlock let it dangle in the air for a few seconds.

"I believe, John, that this is yours?"

John froze. He seemed tempted to run away for a moment, indecision creeping into his features. Then he bowed his head, and let out a heavy sigh of a defeated man. Looking up at the detective, John's eyes were an amalgamation of emotion so complex that Sherlock could not decipher it.

"Yes. Yes, it's mine."

"I think you have some explaining to do, John."

John remained silent. Walking over to Sherlock, he gently took the mask from his hand, and brushing it tenderly, placed it down on the coffee table.

Walking over to the kitchen, he reached on his tiptoes to fetch two blue mugs from the cupboard. A small stretch of tanned stomach was exposed as his jumper lifted up.

'_Sherlock, you dirty pervert!' _The skull stage whispered from his hideout in the bin.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Tea?"

"The usual."

A few minutes later, John handed him a steaming mug of black tea. The doctor plonked himself down on the sofa, cradling his steaming mug.

"The Masked Pianist? Surely something more original would have been in order?"

"It fitted." John laughed bitterly.

"Why the anonymity?"

"Fame entails a lot of things which, frankly, I wasn't ready for. The mask was the perfect solution. I could perform to the public and maintain my normal life, as it were."

"And?"

"Well, assassination and kidnapping was always a worry. Using me to get to you. You know, the usual."

Now for the hardest question.

"Why – why didn't you inform me of the truth behind your late night jaunts? Do you not trust me to keep a secret?"

John looked up suddenly from his cup of tea.

"Of course I trust you Sherlock – with my life. It's just – well you deduced everything about me in the first few seconds after we met. I'm surprised you didn't figure it out before. Living with the world's only consulting detective, it was nice to have one secret that you hadn't deduced. Not a secret anymore, I suppose."

"Who else knows?"

"Mycroft, and know you."

Sherlock bristled. "You told _Mycroft_?"

John looked away. "Let's just say politely threatened me."

"How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was five years old. Stopped when I was in the Army, started again a three months after 'The Blind Banker'. I hadn't been making much money when I performed as a student, only performing at small venues with disapproving crowds. After Mycroft found out, he gave me my big break, whatever you want to call it. Gave me a new mask, got me in contact with some big names. I've been performing like you saw me tonight for a month now. I owe your brother a lot, my whole career, in fact."

That hurt. God damn John Watson, but it did.

"I see." Sherlock sniffed righteously. John gave him a perceptive look, tilting his head to the right. He scoffed.

"Sherlock, you don't actually think I prefer Mycroft over you, do you? I may owe him, but I still think he's a conniving nosey parker!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John gasped in exasperation. "Really, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. Taking a deep breath, he said very quickly, "I thought your performance tonight was capable." John's face cracked into a wide grin. "Is that a compliment Sherlock? Why, I think I must be dreaming?" He spoke this with an air of sarcastic amusement, but kindly. John became serious as he next spoke, "I'm forgiven then?"

"Almost," was the only reply.

"So you don't mind if I continue playing?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Hardly my decision to make, is it?"

John beamed. Sherlock smirked.

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><p><strong>Writing this, I just realised how implausible it was that Sherlock had not realised that John used to play the piano. He can identify so much about a person from their tie etc etc, but I suppose because John hasn't played since he joined the Army, he would have gotten scars and tan on his hands. I don't know. Oh god, what have I created? A Sherlock that can't deduce? The smell of OOC is in the air. Ah well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter none the less. Only the epilogue to go now! Please review and make me feel better!<strong>


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue.

_2 Weeks Later_

Sherlock slammed the door of 221 shut with his foot, unwrapping his scarf and unbuttoning his coat as he glided up the stairs to 221b.

On opening the door however, he was winded as a certain medium sized army doctor buffeted into him and enveloped him in a crushing hug. Suddenly, a very disgruntled and alarmed Sherlock found himself being swung around in the air. He caught fleeting glimpses of a beaming John.

"Sherlock, you bloody brilliant genius!" The consulting detective began to feel rather nauseous, but was unable to speak as his lungs were being crushed to his spine in the bear-tight grip of the excited doctor.

"Thank you _thank you_ **thank you**!" John cried. Gradually he slowed down, and after another twenty seconds, he placed Sherlock down on the ground.

John was flushed from exertion and embarrassment, breathing heavily. Sherlock gripped the door frame tightly, trying to regain his breath. After a few minutes, he straightened and tugged at his suit jacket.

In a slightly breathy, baritone voice, he asked,

"And what, exactly, was the purpose of that?"

John raised an eyebrow in mock astonishment.

Walking over to the newly acquired piece of furniture (but it was so much more than that) John stroked the keys lovingly.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, how much did it cost?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The price is of no consequence if what can be gained from it is so much more valuable." The smile in his voice was almost tangible.

"The wisest words I've ever heard you say. Well, some of the wisest. Tea?" John enquired.

"Please."

"Guess what, Sherlock?" John looked up at him mischievously. "Now we can play duets together!"

Sherlock perched on the arm chair. It had been money well spent.

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><p>John was just about the settle down with his mug of tea when a knock came on the door. Sighing in displeasure, he placed his mug down and went to answer it.<p>

Sherlock groaned.

A grinning Mycroft stood in the doorway. "Hello John." Holding up a thick folder, Mycroft said, "Would you be so kind as to tell Sherlock that I have come to collect my payment?"

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock pulled out his violin.

The world was as it should be.

_Finis_

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><p><strong>AN – The piano (in case any of you were wondering what the 'newly acquired piece of furniture was)is a symbolism of Sherlock telling John he loves him. He gives it to John without specifically naming it (notice in the chapter I never actually say 'piano') but it's still there either way, just left unsaid. In a nutshell, the piano is a physical manifestation of Sherlock's love for John. And from John's reaction, do we really need proof of his love for Sherlock? Sort of slash if you wear goggles. Oh, and the 'we can play duets together' ****line - anybody want to take a guess at what that was hinting? *winkwink* Oh god, I've done it again. It's like the rule that you're never meant to explain a joke. Damn. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all my wonderful reviewers for this story, you've been very positive and it's been a real motivation. Alas, back to school soon, more hell and spontaneous updates to come.**

**I say adieu!**

**~BB**


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